


Her Mountain Prince

by queefqueen



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: AU, Angst, F/M, Gap Filler, Kili survives Bofa, rip your heart out angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:58:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7280746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queefqueen/pseuds/queefqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was listening to a wonderful song from the '70s, "Angelo" by The Brotherhood of Man, and I noticed it fitted the Kiliel theme perfectly! So here is the ficlet the song inspired. It even has Gandalf in it! I don't own anything, my wits included, no infringement of copyright intended, blah-blah</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Hollin, December 3019 TA**

It was Gandalf's turn to keep watch. He sat over the embers of the fire over which Sam had prepared nutritious though artery clogging food. Despite his age, Gandalf was not worried over his health. The Maia expected the exercise he was getting in the mountain air to counteract the stroke inducing meals the stout Hobbit prepared. He hummed a tune and then mouthed the words that Bilbo had set to Quenya.

_Long ago,_

_High on the mountain of Erebor_  
_Lived a young dwarrow boy Kiliello_  
_Who met an elf lass and he loved her so_

 _Sylvan was she,_  
_Came from a very low family,_  
_Kiliello knew it could never be,_  
_They ran away to their destiny_

Here the sage's lips twisted in a mild snarl.

"That fool of a Baggins," – the wizard mused.

"So romantic. So prone to overlook the brutal practicality of the dwarves, always looking for anything positive about the greedy gits."

Nevertheless he continued to sign softly, the beauty of the song proving stronger than his knowledge of the events.

 _Running away together_  
_Running away forever_  
_Kiliello_  
_Running away from danger_  
_Hiding from every ranger_  
_Kiliello_  
_They knew it wasn't wrong_  
_They found a love so strong_  
_They took their lives at night_  
_And in the morning light_  
_They found them on the sand_  
_They saw them lying there,_

_Hand-in-hand_

Once he was done Gandalf sighed sadly and mutter "Romantic fool of a Baggins ... there never had been any " _together_ " for them ... "

**Erebor, December 2941 TA**

"Kili, we have won!" – the ginger from the Mirkwood hugged the dwarf – albeit gently, mindful of the wounds she had just bound. Blood was seeping through the bandages, though.

"With everybody who matters dead we can run away and be together! Marry! Have more kids!" – the spider extirpator exhaled enthusiastically.

Kili, or Kiliello as his name would be rendered in Quenya, shook his head.

"No. What we had in Laketown was a great tumble. Fantastic. You were awesome! I ... " - The son of Dis glanced at his fingers and wiggled them thoughtfully, recalling the details of the wild tryst in an alley between boatsheds on the bank of the Long Lake, whose shape hinted at glacial origin, of being a water filled glacial trough; tectonic origins - a flooded rift valley or graben - was unlikely but could not be rulled out without further research.

"... I came four times! But it was nothing more than just some fun. I'm Prince of Erebor now and I have my duties to the King, Dain, now. You are too low born for me" – his badious globes gazed upon the elleth with a glazing of emotions which were close cousins to sadness and compassion.

"Had you been niece or something to Thrandy" – the prankish dwarf said – "a marriage would be possible. But I must marry according to my station."

Suddenly, unexpectedly, inexplicably, a crease of thought formed on the usually smooth as polished marble forehead of a certain dwarrow archer.

"But I can keep you as a mistress" – Kili perked up, recalling the customs of Men he had noticed during his fifty years of work as caravan guard amongst the Second Born.

"And if I get you with child you will get a doubled stipend! Triple if it's a daughter!" - the usually spadiceous orbs of the stramineous haired ravisher of maidenly hearts and underthings were now umber from the joy of finding a solution to their conundrum.

Kiliello was almost besides himself from the excitement of having had an idea, so rare it was! The inner light generated by his joy made his features - an adorable and irresistible mix of boyish and manly handsomeness - simply awesome! and almost melted the feral elleth's heart and womanly core. Almost ...

The zinnober eyed daughter of the forest snapped and gave evidence of her low breeding and succumbed to her feral instincts– Sylvan elves are wild! - and tore off the cheeky dwarf prince's bandages .

"Die, you cocksucking little fuck!"

And thus the handsome dwarow prince bled perfectly formed rubiginous clots unto the long cooled magma flanks of the hot spot volcano on whose snow sprinkled sides he lay.

She then sprung up and ran away shedding perfectly formed round tears from her viridian spheres. As she pounded the earth with long strides of her long and shapely legs with firm thighs and perfectly formed ankles her ginger hair flew in the wind with the weightlessness of dandelions.

...

Gandalf sighed once more at the events of seventy and eight years ago, at what could have been ...


	2. Her Mountain Kill

**Khazad Dum, November 10th 2994 TA, Throne Room, morning**

The Quest for Erebor had given Balin Fundinul, or Son of Fundin in the Common Tongue fame and riches. And a reputation for being a swashbuckling "go get it" dwarrow. Once his children – Burin, Barishnya and Frar – reached nubile age they all married well.

In ancient dwarrow tradition he established a family dwelling inside the Lonely Mountain for his family. Yet even with a private balcony and escape route (never again the Slaughter of 2770 caused by having a single (known) exit) Balin felt claustrophobic there. Born just 7 years before the Coming of Smaug he had spent all his life under the open sky after all. Hence the unease with living underground – plus the lack of of habit of living with so many other dwarrow under one roof - made him look for greener pastures outwith Erebor.

The "overflowing nest" syndrome, as the Wise Among the Dwarrow termed his condition, nudged him to fulfil his project – the reclaiming of Khazad Dum for the Longbeards. This would put Balin a notch – a tiny, tiny notch – behind Dain in the pecking order among the Longbeards. Dain, as the most-direct descendant of Durin would be the Head of the Clan, but Balin, by holding Khazad Dum, would be the Lord of the most prestigious Longbeard hold there was and ever could be (not some outpost like Erebor with barely 500 years of history).

Now, five years since claiming Khazad Dum for himself Balin was unhappy. He was worried that he had lost direction. That he no longer was carrying out Mahal's plan but was adrift. Losses to orcs amongst "his people" were rising, no riches were found, mithril veins not reached or uncovered. There was growing discontent in the ranks, kept under control by his lieutenant Ori. The second strongest dwarf on the Quest – after his brother Dori – the burly warrior was bashing heads and keeping order. But using brute force would not do for long.

Balin knew he had to rethink his mission, he had to rediscover his "inner dwarf" and the link to Mahal's Will. He ran his hand along his niveous beard under his bulbous nose. A visit to Kheled-zâram was just was he needed. Gazing into the serene waters of that lake, sanctified by the Visions it had given the First Durin, always showed new paths to a virtuous dwarrow. He called for his bodyguard.

**Bank of the Mirrormere, November 10th 2994 TA, early afternoon**

The Sun had already hidden behind the Misty Mountains and shadows were claiming the verdant shores of the body of water occupying the bowl of the cirque. A young March Warden of Lothlorien was on duty keeping an eye on the Golden Wood's new neighbours. It had been easy to find a secluded position, vegetation growing densely on the undifferentiated outwash from the hanging valley to her West, or left hand side. She was a maiden of but two and fifty summers hence she was looked upon as almost a child by the _Galadhrim_. Yet, at her mother's insistence she had joined the Wardens at forty five. Firiel, as this was the pretty young female's name, had quickly integrated with the force as had had home schooling in stalking, shooting and slaughtering foes, and apparently a natural at all those skills.

The young warden's eyes were on the ugly, misshapen shapes of the _Naugrim_ fouling the beauty of this mountain vale. Ewww, - "what fuglies" - the short – for the _Galadhrim_ – but shapely maiden thought. She could hear them talking in their harsh-on-the ears "secret tongue", so loud that she could had shot them with her eyes closed. Firiel gave them only half her attention and her keen smaragdine, almond shaped eyes swept the area for other dangers. Suddenly, a _Naug_ spoke a word she knew. A word that had been burned into her mind since her birth. It was a name from the Litany of Hate!

The Litany of Hate was a list of name of individuals or groups which a Sylvan Elf was to kill at any opportunity. It was taught to still swaddled ellyn and ellith alike – as the Elves did not differentiate much between the sexes - while their pale pink lips suckled on their mothers' puce teats.

Firiel shimmied down the scree covering this section of the cirque's die with extra care. Not only the boulders were sharped edged but also were loose. It was her elven blood which prevented a small avalanche as she hopped, skipped and jumped down the incline while slithering closer to the group of dwarrow. The cloak of the Warden, made by the Lady's handmaidens, made her indiscernible to almost all observers in Middle Earth. She saw one dwarrow, with an impressive albicant beard, approach the waters of the lake while the others held back. The water was blue-green - almost painfully vibrantly so - due to the high mineral sediment load it was carrying. 

"Probably he will poop or pee into it and foul the headwaters of the Celebrant" – the irreverent damsel surmised. By now she was sure that this individual indeed was from the Litany of Hate, from a set of 14 Hated Names, as he had replied to being addressed "Balin" by the rest of the group.

Her full lips, which made many an ellon think of drinking deeply from their sweet promise, were puckered in an expression of angst, anguish and anxiety. Firiel's entire fea hummed and buzzed with the desire to kill the hated creature, yet she knew that her arrows, of elven design and make, would identify Lothlorien as the source of the killing shot. And she had not been given license to kill the dwarrow. Yet. So she should not ... she could not ...

In the descending gloom of the shadow of the Mountains her keen eyes spied _Yrch_! The loathsome creatures were creeping up from the other direction than she had been stalking the _Naugrim_ and soon would be in a position to pounce. Her rosy-pink tongue laved her dried lips with a fresh dose of saliva, keeping them moist in the dry and brisk mountain air. Had any ellon – and some ellith too – spied her at that moment their thoughts would had immediately jumped to the desire to plunder her mouth for pleasure. She smiled – let one set of filth murder another ...

The skirmish between the _Naugrim_ and the _Yrch_ was short and bloody. Firiel picked off the few representatives of either race still standing with well aimed headshots. Once the melee was over she gracefully bounded over boulders on her short but muscular legs into the site of the fighting. "Borrowing" a sword from one of the felled Orcs she gave a coup de grace to those dwarrow and orcs still drawing breath. A priority, of course, was to collect her arrows. She left the bearer of the cretaceous beard for last. He still breathed. Firiel bared her teeth in a feral snarl as she crouched next to him.

The lethal Warden threw back the hood of her cloak and loosened her hair. She let her lavish tresses fall in a glorious cascade of soft erythraean curls. Holding her hair up - drawing the attention of the heavily breathing, almost wheezing, dwarf - she hissed:

"Do you see this hair? Bring back any memories, eh?"

The Lord of Khazad Dum gave no sign of recognition.

"Just over fifty years ago? Several weeks' travel north from here?" – the merciless maiden raised her perfectly formed eyebrow (well, with minimal plucking), their lushness skirting the border of definition of "bushy", yet still definitely ladylike and attractive.

Balin's – as it was indeed him – eyebrows shot up above his eyes. These windows to the soul, usually small and beady as was the manner of the dwarrow, were now wide open with pain and surprise and ... fear.

The _peredhel_ smiled and whispered:

"Compliments from my mother" and buried the orc sword in the Lord of Khazad Dum's chest.

**Caras Galadhon, November 15th 2994 TA**

" ... and at the end of my patrol I observed a clash between _Naugrin_ and _Yrch_ patrols on the bank of the Nen Cenedril. The orcs appear to have been victorious."

"You did not intervene?"

"My orders were to observe and report, Sire."

"Very well. Dismissed. Hail the Lady!"

Firiel straightened her back and smacked the heels of her Warden boots, of soft and supple doe leather, and barked back:

"Yessir! Hail the Lady!"

**AN:**

Nen Cenedril, Mirrormere, Kheled-zâram are all names of the same lake of glacial origin near the East gate of Khazad Dum. Many names for one place Tolkien did like.

Celebrant - Silverlode in Westron, a stream running through Lothlorien

Caras Galadhon is the capital of Lothlorien

Naug - "short round", "vertically challenged",  the singular of Naugrim

Caras Galadhon is the capital of Lothlorien

Naug - short round, the singular of Naugrim

Yrch - Orc

Galadhrim - the Lowly Sylvan Elves of Lothlorien rulled by the Lofty Lady Galadriel and hubby

Peredhel - a product of sexual congress between an elf and some other race

Ellon - elf jock

Elleth - elf dudette

 

 


	3. We will fight them on the beaches

**Northern Reaches of Lothlorien, January 15** **th** **3019 TA, mid day**

Haldir's mouth watered. Or better – drooled. His detachment of March Wardens was deployed in a line along the north-eastern edge of the Golden Wood. The positioning of his wardens – purely random, of course – left him with a good view of Firiel. She was hunching in a becoming pose – Haldir had yet to see her in a pose which was NOT attractive – behind some ferns. Safe in the knowledge that the fiery maiden's attention was focused on observation of the scree covered slopes leading down from the East Gate of Moria to the Golden Wood the March Warden indulged in a peek at her attractive physique. The meaty jawed and generally beefy ellon drank in her stout hocks, her powerful hams – the marks of a born sprinter, the pert chest musculature denoting her as an archer. Although her tresses were currently hidden under her cloak's hood, nevertheless Haldir phased out while thinking of running his hand trough her vinaceous hair, of entwining his fingers in her soft curls, of brushing that hair out of her lovely face, of clasping her chin and raising her face to meet his, of their spheres meeting, of their orbs closing as their lips touched, their lips ready to be split asunder by greedy tongues like logs split for the fireplace ...

SWAT!

" _Shaysskop_!" - his delicately featured brother Rumil hissed venomously into his ear after hitting him on the back of his head.

"What are you? Some cocksucker of a Kinslayer? Focus!" – repeating the brotherly swat Rumil pointed northwards. They could hear the singing of an elf. And later the heavy breathing of the Secondborn. The elf must had been of similar mental formation and shared the same preferences as the Galadrhim as they could hear the elf lead the group in their direction. The copse whose boughs were occupied by Force H was the most comfortable in three miles radius!

Eight figures clumsily descended towards the trees, stumbling, as if their strength had been spent and were exhausted. Behind them the bothers' keen elvish eyesight could discern some gangly silhouettes moving in available shadows, doubtlessly orc _snaga_ trackers, keeping their distance to their prey due to large portions of ground bathed by sunlight splashing through openings of the woods' canopy.

 **Bank of River Anduin, Three Wine Pitchers beach, Lothlorien, vis a vis Dol Guldur, March 22** **nd** **3019 TA,**

Celeborn was examining the detritus – both in war material and in bodies – left by the Third Assault on Lothlorien. The Galadrhrim led by the Sindar had valiantly fought against the Orcs' and Easterlings' amphibious assaults on the Golden Wood, clashing with the invaders on the beaches, on the landing grounds, in the forests and in the trees, and in the hills. They never surrendered. Speaking of hills - the old river terraces which served as hills in this instance had been the high water mark of the attacks, each wave of attackers leaving a line of bodies at the line at which it had been contained, stopped, turned and beaten back.

The defenders were helped by the thalweg of the Anduin being lined with old channels, so called ox-bows. These were now flooded with the River being high, swollen with snow meltwater, producing a wide band of the water logged terrain whose coarse deposits made it difficult - and slow - to traverse for the attackers. Amongst the carpet of filth slaughtered by the noble elves were scattered pools of sadness, the spots where one of the Firstborn had fallen.

At some point Celeborn inwardly almost gasped in angst. His mien, however, as befitted an Elf Lord, remained impassive. This characteristically elven reaction made the Lesser Races accuse the Elves of being heartless. The husband to She Who Knew All dropped to one knee and extended his long, delicate fingers, equally capable of dealing death as they were of bringing his wife to screams of pleasure making birds take wing from their roosts at night when he touched her _there_ and closed the now glassy, viridian eyes whose eyelashes were casting deepening shadows on peach fuzz covered cheeks and sideburns. He almost shed a tear – Firiel had been but seven and seventy years old.

There was no one to mourn her – her mother, Tauriel of Mirkwood, had died in 2990 TA. She always had been reckless. Tauriel had made a bet that she could bring down a bear with two knives instead of hunting the animal with the customary spear. Celeborn mused how the winner of the bet, Haldir, had been moved by guilt to constantly hover around Firiel, always attentive to her welfare. But even Haldir would not mourn the Peredhel's passing – the March Warden himself lay dead several yards away.

**AN:**

_Shaysskop_ – an obscure expression in the Galadhrim dialect of Sindarin, probably from the Avarin language substrate. According to the authoritative compendium - "Cute, endearing and other funny expression in Sylvan dialects in comparison with proper Sindarin" - the expression is used in reference to a person who takes a long time to think about the best course of action.

Kinslayer – amongst other elves such individuals were as well appreciated as child molesters today

 _Snaga_ – orc society has its complex stratification. _Snaga_ is the term used for bottom feeders.

I ran out of ideas so I killed everybody :)


End file.
